World s pier is made for me and daisies

I
For always seeking brisk Tatiana, indeed devoted and submitted to one nude sternness of self-will, whole given world, so badly tricky, huge and complex, right from most early of life's times was highly simple, plain and boring, completely trivial and small and could be easily expressed with help of single tiny phrase, which she was using almost daily in any accidents and cases of idly going share's path: “World's pier is made for me and daisies”, what with this modest short ensemble of weirdly twisted random words was rather doubtlessly meaning, that breed of flowers for her personal perception is much more precious and important, than all familiar of humans, who have been ever somehow woven in plots and chapters of fate's course, where truly weighty and noteworthy was only heroine herself. The very formerly named daisies, most needed satellites of life, were amply growing onto balcony's expanses, with sweet and splendid endless riot embracing all its vacant corners.
This day, habitually loafsome and torn from any sorts of work, was moving forward with no rushing, not filling abyss of existence with any new of tints or facts and not producing any feelings, except of laziness and languor. So, having finally got sated with whole acquainted row of deeds – light eating, drinking of three coffees and getting shower – hot and cold, relaxed and thirsty for amusement forgetful lady was emotionlessly leafing fresh glossy magazine of nothing, with chillness thinking of appointed on weekends brief fleeting walk with one of temporary friends, who had been met few days ago and by unknown secret reasons has quite assuredly awoken some sort of interest and zeal – for being used as finest object for all of vile and low aims. 
"Excess of coconuts in food is madly harmful for slim figure – then what to eat these days at all, if tasty dishes kill your body and tasteless taste as rubber's piece. Which devil has enforced them to proclaim this... The best of meals at now is hunger, as not too difficult to guess..."
So, having calmly disappeared in hot and passionate reflections of how much hard it is to live, returned in realness Tatyana has put dull magazine away and, having hidden in makeup, created into several deft movements, with zeal proceeded to beholding of glad and beautiful oneself.
"Well, what an excellent sweet candy. Just for to draw and hang in frame. Warm, pleasant, tempting, neat and keen. It's so much easy to be charming – few smiles, and world crawls at your feet. What a superior approach... And legs are asking for some road – for some pathetic silent route without worries, sense and rush. At soon tomorrow I will have my meet with Igor, and now - with loneliness and waitings. With thirst for flame and entertainments, shamed piquant miracles and joy. For waltz of passions, sins and heat, nude fervid playfulness and lust."
Another dose of preparations and unimportant sluggish thoughts, and door lets body into street.
In midst of boring greyish pavement, long, faceless, tedious and vast and amply taken in thick vapors, is sternly reigning endless fuss – with pack of cars and heap of crowds, black metal roofs by both of sides and with no tangible wind's breathing. Not close to heaven, but still fine. So, having carefully stomped own lazy path through quarter's length, Tatyana, who was switched off from all around, was unexpectedly called out by trudging near passer-by, who has attempted to build up a conversation – without purpose, but with fright: "I am Stepan, plain printing master and also seeker for success. I'd like to learn of your sweet person and to give answers of myself."
"This is both stupid, cute and funny. If to be prudent – brief and fast, let's move to nearby cafe – the one ahead with whitish canopy at top, for to discuss all of your offers."
"I’m walking, dragging as an arrow in most expensive foreign clocks."
"What an infrequent weird comparing. I see, you're loving to kiss whips..."
"Oh, how much quickly you've enslaved me – with speed of blinking of an eye."
"It was your will to fall in this."
"And don't deny, I'm just agreeing."
And then white canopy above of wicker chairs, thin taste of mussels, bright glances, smooth aimless questions, breeze of wind, wide smiles and inept timid flirting, exchange of numbers of the phones and fleeting point of prompt parting.
"In fact, quite suitable example. At least, some chance to make a choice. I am a queen. It's sharply clear. I am an ingot of success. Sweet trembling taste of total freedom, what is more glorious at earth..." - has sighed with slight indifference Tatiana, renewing ardor of heart's flame, and walked in depths of waiting distance of boldly spreaded space of street.
Path back is same, but with more modest zeal of pace, without meetings and with fading of landscape, already ready to get darkened, then once again in walls of house, in boredom, sluggishness and thoughts – of something definitely active and full restlessness and life. And then in bed – in dreams and night - to further triumphs and next winnings, most firmly waiting to be caught.

II
Next day in essence of its plots has coped to happen in extremely equal manner, by will of fortune having skillfully included the same forgetfulness and boredom, the same long gatherings and thinking and indistinguishable walk in friendly hugs of aforementioned street cafe for quite identical short meeting, with only difference, that now it was with Igor, who was not laboring in printing, but was an architect of bridges, in other qualities and features repeating everything and all. So here and now, in tart void of vain present, right week ago from second meeting, veiled up with tiredness Tatyana, as always being wholly idle and free from any sorts of deals, was weakly spending static givenness of share, while at some moment having luckily recalled of recent couple of new partners, picked up thick body of her phone and, after drop of lovely fuss, with perfect easiness arranged two home meetings, of course in different of days, but onto vastness of one sofa. So after positive completing of this entirely plain task, it has remained just to await and, after season of relations, to choose for which exactly of next uses will serve possessing of such bonds. At here again was rambling thinking and weary gathering for walk along of stretchy line of pavement - to look at people and shop-windows and to get rest flesh and soul. At street without any changes – the same offhanded atmosphere, thin pensive figures of tall lanterns and all-consuming sleepy noise of stable mix of cars and crowds. Again with no single meeting, but with cute buying of fresh juice. Again route back, door's hugs and evening, sunset of reddening sun's circle, light modest supper and bed's pier – with long and magical excursion in motley nets of dreamings' abode.

III
In midst of colorful young morning, at farthest row of empty hall of early desolate cafe, which has barely started to work, were sitting Igor and Tatyana, who had been meeting with each other for peaceful term of more than month, erecting piquancy of themes and growing closeness of contacts.
"Oh, yeah, my heartful chosen, you've come. This time you're even in tailcoat..."
"For me, each visit is great joy, even holiday and feasting."
"Oh, what an immense shameless praise. Indeed not less than outstanding, but still not priceless, not unique, but I'm quite satisfied, quite glad. I'll even gift you highest prize – my fleeting smile, your mainest trophy."
"I will appreciate it more than any heaven."
"You're wholly free to beg and twaddle. I'm full of bottomless attention. So, don't upset me with delays."
"So ample lavishness, I'm even truly puzzled... Not more than after one short month I'll ride in lands of town Dusky – to check first measurements of bridge – the one, which will be based on floating pillars. I'll spend few days and then will speedily return. And then will likely ride again."
"Fuss, rushing, traveling, trails, legs... Old known plot – so, do not boast. We all are different is essence and world, which always had been immense, has tons and tons of human mass – both always hopelessly ingrown and days and nights obsessed with straying."
"This is terribly true, but by sad givenness of life, it's not a remedy from being – from flock of plans and bunch of needs. And anyway I'll have to go to swirl at place of future bridge and fulfill its getting built."
"Work, worries, targets, tasks and hardships. Again quite ordinary lot. And what's of current state of share – which dreams and sins it gains and holds?" 
"Just as before – in all of spheres. And dreams are also not to tricky – to sit with you and to keep talks."
"Not bad. Quite sensible request. Let's try to cover all shamed topics."
So, having swept whole row of dishes and having spoken of most actual of matters, glad tired heroes have got gradually parted - without reaching of demanded expectations, but with firm feeling of some progress in shaky moving by hazed path in further unity and hotness.
"Not so wrong. But still vain. With only lifeless empty hints and with no piquancy or passion. I'd like to see it more direct, more bold, decisive and straightforward... What's sad, it'll barely be soon."
Then street, room's walls and idle evening – with heap of trivial affairs, weird, hollow, pointless and random, as swarm rid of friendship bees.

IV
At meek uncrowded expanses of sleepy soundless cafe, veiled up in spreaded over chairs vast whitish canopy of roof, were keeping timid conversation two coupling silhouettes of lovers – completely indolent Tatyana and wholly busy with her person chained up in catchy charms Stepan, extremely happy from this unity of natures. Smooth empty dialogue, which, without innovations, has been begun with usual greetings, was fully trivial and vain, including mainly just two lines – incessant tireless delights with lady's beauty and reciprocal harmless mockeries and jokes, supplied with laughing and reproaches, so much unfaultably learnt by all involved in flirting people.
"With all assuredness and aptness, I am repeating you once more – you're most enchanting, sweet and tempting, it's even hard to trust to eyes."
"You're also fairly not ugly. At least, if not to look for long. What good is happening in printing? Noteworthy, serious and new."
"We’ve written article of poor town Dusky, which waits and waits in need of bridge for more than ten of even years. Such one will helpfully connect both living districts of its limits and will provide with lucky chance to move from one of lands to other. We've even found main of guilters and done swift checking of deadlines and of required amount of money, people and machines. We've even interviewed chief person, who has got risk to do this project – young local architect, bright forehead, Stavretsky Igor, hope of time."
"Stavretsky?" - with unpredictable strange panic has asked alarmed and tensed Tatiana, who into less than single second has realized annoying fact of short acquaintance of her partners.
"Yes, he. Quite promising and smart. If he will work not with full thieves, then all of better expectations are strongly viable and close."
"Nice, great. True holiday for livers... And what's of you? Which useful starting and occasions have been imputed in route's fuss?"
"I was in park... Have seen few elephants at there... And also was in one museum... The last was out of big friends..."
"Well-tried, so rare sort of leisure. I think you are deserving laurel wreath. And if to judge without sneering – just wholly average time's course. With nothing properly unusual and with one boredom in mood's pull. And with few elephants behind."
"They are still funnier than people..."
"You're right. You're definitely right..."
Another hundred of frail, and dreary dialogue has dried up at cold goodbyes and passive parting. Then back to bonds of dwellings' walls, where all is similarly static – no decent incidents, no news.

V
In midst of painted with sun's brush vast vivid balcony with daisies, which had inhaled young bashful dawn, was meekly standing sleepy spiritless Tatyana in matted tissue of night robe and with powerful watering can – looks up in hazy passive distance and slowly waters potted wards. Near at faded edge of bleak horizon, in ashy ring of graish mist, are shyly hiding languid quarters with faceless houses and blurred lines of streets. In rid of windiness pale heights are amply floating thick clouds.
"Here I am, greet me, life, I have woken. My friends are full of sparkling water. I've tasted weather, got refreshing. This means, it's time to fall in plans – to think of days and to build prospects, to share dreams and to feed hopes."
All plans, of course, were of next meetings and of their benefits and fruits.
"I'll meet again, with whom at first, I think no difference and matter. What's then, I sadly guess, one fuss – without greatness and surprises and with no rescue from souls thirsts. I'll even barely be able to laugh at them as much as want. Too modest time, too empty living... Too barren fate and too vain lot..."
And again dose of thoughts and of walk and again back in burdensome walls - not into miracles or changes and not in latitudes of grace.

VI
In frames of little grayish dwelling, amid of heaps of folded texts and printing presses, were coyly sitting two thought-builders – first one Stepan, next one – his comrade. The plot of joyless conversation was made of hopeless thoughts of fate, of role of fortune and of search of keys from better.
"Why all accessible of roads are so much twisted, dark and hazed. Why every life is so unsteady - inconstant, wavering and short..."
Such state is natural and normal. Each step, as well as any minute, is made of endlessness of risks. We try to hurry and to climb, to crawl ahead and to move forward. To trust to sequence of attempts and to keep faith in future's prudence. But all depends on single luck. You can meet horsemen with no heads, but can't meet horsemen with no horses."
"At here I'm having to agree. You can lose everything, what's given - the same ability to lose at one of days can be just lost. But does it warm or save from gloom. You can't buy joys by selling pains. For to await for love of fate, you must be sure in its presence. For sudden noticing of trunk, you need to find whole elephant, not less. It's too much true and too upsetting. To live with hope today is morbid, to live with dream is mad at all."
"What's sad, it's mercilessly fair. But we are crippled ourselves — each time, approaching life's bottom, instead of changing path and pace, we're going up and delve in murk. All ones who've found certain reason to move themselves to abyss' edge, will never manage not to step. World's pier is made of dirt and falsehood. And even smallest chances' heap is most sufficient of sources for hugest volume of regrets."
"This is terribly wrong. I know: chances - call in anguish. In disappointment and pain. Frustration, apathy and tears. Some one will get small modest box, but with great gift inside its scopes, and other one, from side more lucky, will get both sizable and rich, but with one void in walls' bonds. We cannot change it or predict, as well as can't ignore or stop."
"When we will finish our feast, world's scene will have one single plague – no weakest doubt, all is so. Life's time and opportunities of share are close to model of hourglass... Sand's grains get ended, time gets melted, but no of hands will turn clocks back... At start we all are fully equal - same hands, same legs, same heads and bottoms, same scale of openness to truth and same defenselessness from lie, but how much different are shares..."
"All horns and violins are close – both in core's shape lines and in main basics, song's grace, in any single case, depends on who proceeds to playing. All sorts of cards and chess, all balls, all births and fallings in society, but fruits and outcomes... They shock..."
"We live in constant dance chaos, which either rescues or makes dead. Don't be afraid, fright never helps. The more deep is your breath, the more sweet must be air."
"What's worst, it's also not a key. Without care and support from higher forces and path's essence, we're not much more than empty shadows. Each fire makes at first cold ashes, flame's heat is always secondary, needless. All past achievements can get lost, all taken benefits can leave you. The more incredible is picture, with more of tears it was drawn."
"Again quite true. Till pain and shout. The neater is hand-writing, the freakier are words. And part of happiness in practice is even worse than full grief. One step is not a claim for road."
"It's too regrettable, too heavy. Too much of fates are simply broken. And what is even more appalling – such ones are adoring their lifes..."
"The less important is detail, the more it's faithful to construction. The unneeded is the share, the more it harms to needful ones. The more small is the hail, the more hard it can hit."
"Eh, life, dust, wretchedness and routine ..." 
"It face of being at lost now. If your wings have no sky, one day you'll have to cut them off ... But still be thirsty, don't give up. The more thin is luck's thread, the more long must be fate. Free horse is also kind of horseman."
At here shy dialogue has got ended and changed on silence and pain's bonds, so much habitual and usual for every liver of earth's hell.

VII
In full of yearning for some sinfulness apartment, in midst of passion-keeping sofa, which has transformed in changeless cradle for shy embraces and long talks, was coyly resting peaceful pair of amply teeming with keen playfulness Tatiana and timid fearful Stepan, who was just sitting into silence as faint and pallid lifeless shadow, not putting glance away of charms of badly teasing tempting beauty.
"With what amazing, fun and useful you'll risk to wonder me this time?"  - has deftly asked sweet fervid lady, with dextrous gesture of her legs having in one smooth movement having swiftly escalated enchanting piquancy of pose.
"I'm once again completely helpless in front of nets of your saint will, which turns my person in last slave of your desires, whims and wishes."
"What a cute prisoner of feelings. Nice little angel... What a trash. Both stupid, pretty and disgusting. And what's of glorious and new? Of truly weighty, big and great, what was included into leisure..."
"Without victories or storms – in usual fuss and and grayish colors. All was so trivial and boring, that it's a shame, that I'm alive... "
"Well, one fresh tragedy again, I guess I have to try to help – to find for you some cozy noose or to acquaint with poison's drinking, then to pour tears, to console. It looks as you are living your first day. No strength, no confidence, no plannings. One endless apathy and routine. Not days, not life, but purest torment. And what's of something hot and shameful? Will you have any tries?"
Stepan has passionlessly sighed – from all forbidden and impudent he was remembering one void: "No plates, no dishes, only crumbs – priceless spices of hopes..."
"Oh, my small poor child of pains. Weak, sick and permanently waiting. I’m laughing, squealing and exploding…"  - Tatiana has offhandedly stretched out and, having reached pale Stepan’s cheek, pulled last one up and gifted kiss: "Oh, oh… You're practically melting. My heat is working as a venom."
So, after term of lazy playing Tatyana has unwillingly got up, then turned around and with coldness thrown brief order: "Come on, I'm thirsty for some walking."
They both have sluggishly got dressed and gone in avenue's expanses – to frail familiar landscapes and tasteless set of usual faces, where after bit of steps and dialogue, route's course has gradually shallowed and weakly met with ending point, enforcing heroes to part.
"I'm fully charmed and deeply glad and even ready to ask days to move more speedily and promptly for to bring dose of further bonds. And here it's time to say goodbye and to delve back in fuss and hardships."
"Go up, do not crash into pillars..."  - has dryly handed cold response exhausted passionless Tatyana and trudged with frostiness away: "What a disgusting morbid love, what a sick uselessness and limpness. I'd like to vomit with whole stomach and to repeat it few of times... Or, at least, to close eyes and to vanish – in something tangibly more aimful and freed from burden of such meets."

VIII
And once again the same apartment and same vast hugs of sofa's pier. This time with company of Igor.
"Speak up, my dear gentle tempter – I'm harshly waiting for some fun, for shocking news and scandal gossips. Like straying wanderer is waiting for new countries. Or as dried lips for saving sip."
"I think, I’ll start with new at work – one prompt and abrupt week ago I've been in lands of town Dusky – for to complete last tasks on ground, which I, of course, most deftly done, so from today it's time creepy time to delve in calling depths of papers  and to get lost in drawings' storm. And if of wonderful and catchy, I cannot name you new of facts. All things are going into ordinary manner – with deadly average conditions and on far distance from bright deeds. But I am bottomlessly glad - with our meeting and with talking and with this fervent glances' play. It's dose of paradise, not smaller, at least, for modest world of me."
"Oh, hugs of heaven, opened bushes, forbidden fruits and taste of sin. True path to dreams is long and languid. And you've, I see, already stepped... So do not stumble by the road. Sometimes it's possible to fail – at every way and any soil."
"At here I'll certainly agree here. World's pit is scariest of piers. But losses' pull we'll leave for others, for us we'll rest sky's heights and flying."
"You have already spreaded wings and even trampled air's widths and tinted heart in crazy tones. Oh, how ambitious it seems - to wait for something so much shameful. But we are sitting, holding dreams and weaving flash of expectation. While doing really big things, sometimes we can afford short tiny loafing. And you're so busy, so unthinkably imposing..."
And once again, brief row of kisses, meek time of walk, vain empty phrases and usual parting till new bonds – in same plot's essence, style and spirit as into former loving case – with equal scale and strength of boredom and with repeating passion's lack – without sinfulness and lewdness and with no chance on proper vice or on, at least, tart decent madness.

IX
And once again pale walls of tragical apartment and sad ensemble of two souls – frail sleepy featureless Stepan and his same comrade in regretings weak full of wretchedness Andrei, who, as in previous of talks, was wholly lifeless and reflective, from time to time performing nodding and throwing rare hopeless words.
"Why all around is so tricky, so harshly difficult and hard- in any sphere and each starting, at every single given way one endless chaos, swamp and hurry, thick mix of falsehood, fog and risks, deceit, duplicity and danger. Each step brings uselessness and torments, despair, losses, gloom and pain. And the more pure you are and honest, the more effectively you sink and more incurable of problems invite in future course of fate. And too much baleful and strong are dreary nets of inner fading. Past path is always madly shaky, unsteady, breakable and thin..." - has asked with apathy Stepan and feebly lowered his eyes till dusty floor .
"What's more, for sharper horror's presence and for more distinct lack of hope, it's one of mainest being's basics. Sick knot of trustfulness and lie is much much firmer than steel chains. Such fact is frighteningly old. So, blame own flawfulness, not world. Rights' absence injuries and cripples, makes hurted, purposeless and cracked. And wrongness also isn't new. As soon as you'll transform in worthy stone, you'll definitely get some worthless sculptor. We have no place, no single moment for either victories or pleasures, or even simple banal peace, so unfamiliar and rare. You cannot fall from poor sky on lavish ground. We more persistent are your strivings, the smaller weight will have their fruits. For player game is close to god. While you are planning to draw clouds, at first, do not erase the sun. And even thoughts are rather helpless, such ones do not deny life's laws.  No matter how much long you look at picture, you'll never notice painter's face. Days' course is windy, strange and empty. Vain tears never stop to leak, true tears never start own pouring. All what is given is full void, faked trifling fiction and pure circus. We wait, believe and moving up. And time gets mercilessly shallowed and rolls ahead to ending point – most tragic, terrible and numb. It's cause to hate each single clocks. We catch for chances, this is mindless. Life's luck is greatly close to torch – you either hold it by its handle and path through darkness teems with light or you grab such one by the flame - and there is neither former gleaming, nor visibility of road, nor even hand, which had transformed in smoking coal. The question is what you'll prefer. All roles – both tearful and funny get played, as rule, at common stage, but, what's the main, not by same actors. You do not know, what you'll get, what will be sent by will of fortune. But all will occur, all will come. If world has hands, which have made nails, believe, it'll certainly will find enough of hands, which will be able to use hummer. It's incorrigible and static. But don't sad for too much long - if water has offended you and left, don’t worry, drought will do the same."
"I guess, all problems grow from mind. Such one is always crooked and broken. The hunger of the smart ones means food's absence, the hunger of the fools means spices' lack. We always look for certain reasons, await for help and fully optimal of frames, for wholly favorable moment for smooth fulfillment of each plan. But this is abysmally rare and torn from real course of fate. We must be soberer and bolder, best rescue – friendship with yourself."
"And what's of happiness? If frankly."
Andrei has caught short hesitation and with tiresomeness sighed: "What this happiness is – what makes its evidence and frames? What it is to be happy? We haven't strict criteria or tests. We have one strange and vague feeling, one shacky personal conviction in true obtaining of this state. It's highly close to ring of bell: you sleep and hear doorbell's ringing, and you, still lying into bed, already cleanly understand, that some of visitors has come and that in couple of brief seconds you'll deftly jump away of bed, will make few steps and, having fiddled with your key, will find a silhouette ahead – will shake the hands and help with coat. But it can happen such a way, that doorway's space will be just empty – last night was rain, old roof was leaking, wet doorbell's contacts were connected by the water and inadvertently brought close, having given shy birth to the call, which has equipped you with your faith in real visitor's upcoming. How can you check, that you are needed, are truly loved and understood, indeed desired and supported. Here is whole burden of this feeling – you cannot proof, can't confirm. You can be trusting to deceit and calmly think, that you are absolutely happy. It can be so, that world is rid of happy people, that every happiness is false. When I've been born, I had desire to announce - let's skip all pages of delight and start to move disappointment and vainness. My life was has always seemed improper for being happy, right or good. I'm sure, yours is just the same."
Stepan has frozen into fear.

X
In midst of gray and foggy skys, in clothes of thickly spreaded clouds, was hanging balcony with flowers and Tatyana. Cold, heavy air, swiftly gathering in winds, was harshly bursting in heart's abode and chilling arrogance and blood. Weak rare foliage, meekly turning dry and yellow, was sadly ringing with fresh bitterness and pain, with anguish falling from the branches and coyly rustling at flat surfaces of pavements. And even glad and vivid yard, most always full of life and moving, was deadly silent, bleak and empty - without faces, cars and tints.
"Well, autumn – dreariness and wilting. No heat, no sun, no blooming gardens. I'm almost totally alone. Yes, I have meetings, plans and playing. But it's so burdensome and boring, so madly primitive and sick. I need for fire, blood and fullness. For restless rampage for my soul and reckless tempest for my body. But all is passive, frail and mournful. What can I get from these two fools. Are they true partners, are they lovers. Just useless objects for to wipe of them my feet and to be cruel, if I'm angry. I even maybe am unhappy. With so gray chapter in so colorful life's course. But what to do – who'll risk to tell... " - Tatyana has pathetically yawned and then got melted into spaces of apartment – in dreams and being with oneself.

XI
All, what's alive, has need to move. And time is also not for standing. So, after term of rainy autumn and of next whitish winter's snows, has promptly come young mellow spring. Past strange relations of Tatiana for days and months of coldness' term have climbed till highest possible of levels, which can be met in one dreams' labyrinths and books. So, as before in slushy season, she was at balcony's expanses, in midst of lavish daisies' sea, with usual massive can of water and into changeless windy thoughts of further fate and loving matters.
"And again new young spring and new blooming, new greedy greenness and new breathing of fresh breeze. New chance for previous affairs and for past purposes and plans. And it’s my turn to burn and blossom, to rise and shine, to laugh and play and to strive up to grace and pleasures. I'm here, with can and in plain dress, in midst of fussiness and flowers and onto distance from great deeds, but in my mind I sit with Gods, drink wine and teach to look for being. World's pier is made for me and daisies. All other things are simply trifling and rid of value, weight and sense. From whole humanity one me is real secret. One me is mystery and treasure, most truly able to rewrite main earthly plots and to submit each single share. I'm full of yearning for big games - without presence of small blood and with most frightening of bettings. With long and tireless applause and unshakable stern absence of any possible regrets. Life's frames and laws, no slightest doubts, were made exactly for whims. I'm match, which's hotter, than sun's surface. And I am ready to gift scalds. To let my will in freedom's abyss and to unleash my inner hell. I'm almost queen, if I'm in fervor. World's pier is made for me and daisies. I do not care of all rest. My choice is me and my cute flowers. I'm also flower in some way. And whole life's abode is not more than my playground – for tricks, temptation and obsessions. So, get prepared, breed of people, your main adventures are in me."
Small dose of boastfulness and fuss and then again inside of room – to spend habitual day's schedule: drink juice, take walk and look at world, which by deceptive will of fortune without waverings or shame has so much heedlessly permitted to her person to get dissolved in motley crowds of never ending net of streets, most gladly suitable and cozy for any known sorts and forms of all indecent dark beginnings and inappropriate sinned plans.

XII
And once again bleak gray apartment with nude and pallid faceless walls and bitter dialogue of fate's going, which has stayed free from any changes for cold and painful winter's months.
"Why any choices are so vain - both in life's learning and in love. We try and rush, persist, strive forward and keep mad readiness for all – for any possible of torments, omissions, sufferings and griefs, just for to get short vague chance or wholly empty fruitless promise, for to be fooled, deceived and hurted and then rejected, cracked and smashed. We fight for nothingness, for void. And the more frank are asks for meal, the more excessive are its poisons." - has claimed with hopelessness Stepan and left his glance in gap of window – at stingy colorless horizon and hazy lifelessness of lands.
"It shows full essence of new living. Full depth of tragedy and hell. Just try to feel and to pretend – how sadly useless, weak and lonely is every single human soul. Enslaved by microscope's observing and clung to spreaded knowledge's flash coy wistful scientist with greediest of joys will most undoubtedly fall in strongest love with any morbific bacterium or virus, no matter how much dangerous and plagued is last one's influence on health. And he will happily release it from lab's prison - without even shortest thinking and with full gladness from himself: this damned bacillus is so beautiful and tempting, so much heart-warming and enchanting, so sweetly pretty, neat and cute. No heavy trouble, if humanity will die. Such empty happenings don't puzzle. And this bacterium, what's truly most upsetting, is hundred times more pure and precious, supportive, mutual and close, than any burdensome of members of current family of our poor fellow. We're used to share most sincere, frank and sacred just with some passer-by or stranger, with unfamiliar far person, who is torn off from former unity of fates and freed from commonness of shares, not with the one, who is most relative and native and who inhabits same flat's nest and feeds self belly with same soup. And even love at rotten here is nothing else than sort of hatred, most stably equalized in measure and quite exalted in external of details. We look at partner as at foe, as at receiver of main anger. We cannot trust to damned each other, at least, most tiny part of self – most trifling piece of inner abode. We're neatly watching thrilling tapes and pouring tears over victims, and then, returning back to life, proceed to act as film's aggressor. It's strange to faith or to keep hopes, to be supportive or to dream. No human features can be blameless, no single quality can't fade or stay away from dirt and vice. Words are faked, deeds are vain, souls are barren. The ones, who're free to blind with beauty, can't gift your safe blindfolded future. All types of merciful beginnings take roots from bloodiness and pains. And even empathy grows up from self-rejection. It kills, upsets and throws in horror, not leaving minimal of questions, but giving confident desire not to find answers or solutions and not to strive or to build plans. You cannot change it, cannot fix. The only use from having mind is constant readiness to fooling. No ones of waters are preserved from state of freezing. No ones of promises are true. We can't refuse from path of falsehood and betrayals, can't paint heart's cradle into purity and bliss. All deeply precious, saint and flawless can calmly squeeze in heap of dust. It’s not so scary to be pushed in hugs of abyss as to find out who has pushed. We live away of any purpose and move without of straight route. We're trained to be rejoicing with last trifles and to get sad without cause. It's rather normal not to guess, why you was crying, but wrong and dreary not to guess, why you was glad. We live in permanence of fuss, in pit of void, gloom and sickness. It's not so difficult for bird to part with wings, as hard for cage to part with previous bird's presence. This broken world is not for good. Each former memory of roses is fine exclusively in pair with full unknowingness of thorns. Do not await for hand of help and don't believe, that it will never bring you harm – not stopping process of compassion and not enfeebling care's strength. No one loves trees as much as axe. True kindness always needs in guillotine or noose. It's greatest burden to belong to people's flock – more even damaging than art of acids' drinking. Life's pier is wrong location for survival. But who we are – weak will-less shadows. And even acting as main string of being's music, you can be  easily torn out without wavering and trace – by inattentiveness of playing or by excessiveness of zeal. Sometimes it has been doubtlessly seeming, that time is hurrying so much promptly, that clocks are ready to explode, but nothing new was close to happen and all was staying as before - without miracles or progress and with no chances on some grace. It's too appalling, to frustrating, too much unbearable for mind. The only outlet is bliss of independence – from all of borders and taboos: from thoughts, society and religion. Such one is also not for good. And yes - don't idealize God. Most shyly serving as straight author of all given, he must not be more wise than you – the very people, who've invented great computers, are most assuredly unable to do at least the smallest part of last one's plainest calculations. You have to find enough of courage for to admit, that fate can also make mistakes. And no one, except of you, will ever manage with their fixing. But don't believe, that you'll succeed. Each ardent longing for perfection, with vainly lasting share's course, leads up exclusively in horror, in bonds of tragedies and pain. This fact, as you've already guessed, is also terribly upsetting. The more convenient is cage, the more it looks as sky or better. But still keep fighting, try and rush – pretend, whole world is just a toy for your desires: all motley shops, all bleak gray clouds, each noise of leaves and every rain. Not too much, I suppose. Just dead rubbish. We're not in kingdom, where you want to be its king..."
Stepan has frowned his eyes and sighed: "What sort of living do we have. Hell, garbage, nastiness and sorrows. Fog, darkness, aimlessness and murk. If we'll examine all accessible delusions, which ones truths we'll cope to reach... The more you're here, the less you're happy. It's to regrettable, to wrong. Wrong is all. People, principles, routes. All is wrong, all is totally cracked..."
XIII
All sorts of things are free to happen. And this strange day is best of proofs of such unusual equation. In small cafe, in midst of cozy vacant hall, have met each other two of figures, whose common sitting has been most definitely absent both in their plans and in scenarios of fate. By will of habit deeply pensive, frail, pale and doleful Stepan, who has arrived to meet Tatyana, just having barely stepped in, has nimbly noticed one shy silhouette in coat with rather native face's features, who was relaxing right at place, which had been aimed for his own person. This fact, of course, most madly weird, at first has bottomlessly shocked and thrown in horrible confusion and then turned out in full stupor and morbid readiness to all.
"Good day you, Igor Alekseich." - has said with timidness Stepan: "You're also here? For which of targets? I guess, an interview - of bridge, they still attack you with damned questions, not giving shortest term of rest for your extremely busy person and sternly hunting for fat news of peper zeal and ground working?"
"Oh no, all things are much more simple. I'm just awaiting for my lady and for romantic type of plot."
"Still how much tricky are world's plays. I'm here by same of needs and reasons – have also meet with love and dream. What an amazing joke of fortune – one place, one purpose and one time..."
"I'm also utterly bemused and even certainly dumbfounded... All looks as start of some wrong trick."
And just at end of this coy phrase, enchaining hearts in hardest fear and sowing panic and alarm, has briskly entered the guiltress - of aforementioned slippy state, as free to guess, of course, Tatyana, who by the reason of exhaustive daily boredom had with indifference arranged whole mash of current situation.
"Well, you have met, it's full of sense. Which way you're going to decide, who one is worthy of possession with all my treasures, sins and charms? Reveal, confess, repent and burst. If I had task to choose myself, I would prefer the soonest duel - with leaving answers for last blood and ending action with dot's putting. I do not see another ways. And what's, proclaim, of your suggestions? I seek for logical response."
The speech was met by loud silence and vastest abyss of strong fright, which has encircled both of fellows in veil of numbness stress and strain.
"I even cannot say a word for to describe all gloom of happened..." - has sharply frozen in perplexity Stepan, with shiver trying to give value to squall of occurring events.
"I'm also stuffed with same emotions. But if her nature asks for shooting, then other methods aren't for us. So, let's fulfill what is determined – without meaningless delayings and with cold confidence in moods." - has has drily told stiff muted Igor: "Whole deal is magically small – to cope with dose of fatal minutes and then to fall in one of trips – in nets of passion, love and joys or in fresh hungry hugs of coffin. And for to make it less unfair and more convenient for you – I'll risk to come with starting offer and to call out for this game. You'll have first shot – quite fine advantage, if to be trusting to brave books."
"It's rather relevant and sober, I have no chances to refuse. So, I'm awaiting for last trifles – time, place, gun's brand and sum of steps..."
"Think, let's appoint at tomorrow. At six and half. In Rakish Lands, next to old dams. Let's take two colts and leave twelve steps. And here it's time for us to part."
And once again thick liquid silence, swift shaky gazes and routes back, in three of different directions - till future tearful events and till denouement of plot's questions, which asks for straightest of fulfillments – by blood and ticket to death's hands.

XIV
Before each hard and heavy starting, it's right to fall in pit of thinking and to weave askings for advice, perplexing brain with taste of sorrow and feeding heart with doubts' flesh. Stepan, not breaking this tradition, just having barely gone out of gun-store's entrance's door and having catiously grasped fresh shining metal of colt's body, still unfamiliar with blood, has has sent his legs in only logical location – to walls of abode of Andrei – for holding joyless conversation of what to do in hell of actual conditions and which of actions to prefer. So, having hastily rushed up and weakly shared with description of last deplorable events, he has got frozen and closed eyes in meek awaiting for solution, which was as needed as an air for his defeated bleeding soul.
"Well, horrors also are life's guests..." - has broken silence limp Andrey and stretched with passiveness in voice: "No sure difference and matter, which way you'll dare to behave. Each one approach will be resulted with regrettings. If he will kill you, what is worst, it will be me, who will be sobbing, and if you'll manage to survive and to dilute fate's route with murder, then it'll be you, who will regret. Regret, that further heights and pleasures will be provided by death's act. And not to answer with agreement is sadly also not a case – you'll leave your goal, not even fighting, not even trying to resist. It's also ladder in despair, in silent bitterness and guilt. Or even straightly into noose – at dreary end of wasted years. And, what's assuredly most gloomy, you cannot fix it, can't untie - without tragedy at ending and not with apathy ahead."
"I'll tell most heedfully and simply: regrets are not of my mind's essence. I live away of last ones' breed, not letting waverings or doubts and not admitting going back. For me it's easier to dare, to take whole risk and to make step, than to await or to have feeling, that you're at point of soon parting with former givenness of luck. It's firmest part of inner me, you'll never cure this, just believe."
"Life's route, where you're unknown with regrettings, is truly scary, sick and wrong. World's frames are full of pain and horror, of falsehood, torments, lie and dirt, but you, existing in same being, keep staying happy and successful and bath in peacefulness and sense, not meeting troubles and upsetness and writing perfect fate's direction above of tears, griefs and deaths. Your bright smooth days, if to be frank in views at facts, are based on sufferings of others, on someone's losses and omissions and on distortedness of plots. We all are fruits of common living, of its realities and laws. All you have managed to achieve, to get and gain for days of share, in current volume, width and scale, would not be possible at all in any different conditions. What's more, you wouldn't be yourself with any other course of past and with another twists of actions. All deeds are mixed and interwoven and deeply rooted in time's flesh. And if at earliest world's start some walking stranger wouldn't stumble, would not fall down and get dead, we, maybe, wouldn't live at all, would not sit here and keep this talkings. If to be thoughtful and attentive and not to shy of taste of truth, all sins – of every single sinner, must lie on whole humanity, not less. Each robbing, violence and murder in full amount of its reasons, no even tiniest of doubts, hides certain drop of our guilt."
"It's mad, we're living in nightmare. But I'm surprised by something else – by fact, that she herself had made such offer – of solving question right by blood."
"It shows main sides of people's essence – soul's absence, heartlessness and hatred – most frequent qualities at Earth. No things have changed from first world's chapters – same hellish dominance of wildness, same wars, atrocities and gloom. Played faked morality and care have face of rich and splendid coat, which was with arrogance stretched over of inly rotten swollen corpse. All living principles are ancient, all needs and tools are old and worn - so much, that if you'll look more aptly, you quite effortlessly will notice, that they repeat and even copy such ones from distant age of stones."
"Nice dose of history, I'll answer, but is it able to console..."

XV
At cold fresh land, placed under dark and foggy sky, full of numb sorrow and perplexion, next to forsaken somber dams, was standing modest group of people - Stepan was busy with his Colt, meek wordless Igor was beholding this persistence, not spending time on such a fuss and showing readiness for shooting, but not for garbage of delays. Tatyana also was just looking, with gladness melting in awaiting for soon beginning of brave action in sake of demon of her love, what was most lavishly endowing with satisfaction and delight.
And here, when last of preparations have calmly met with sure end, in midst of thick encircling haze was started counting of steps.
"Exactly twelve. Let's get positions." - has with decisiveness reported zestful Igor and stiffly frozen at his line.
"Let's shoot!" - has shouted Tatiana and sternly stared at performance, with zeal intending to explode.
Stepan has shyly caught an aim and with thick trembling pulled gun's trigger. Smoke's sea has swiftly risen up, fixed steady Igor, who was serving as a target, at first has powerlessly shaken and then with shiver fallen down, with one hand squeezing hurted chest and weakly aiming in response with rid of firmness feebling other. And once again new shooting sound and new gray smoke above of lands. This time in vain – away of goal.
Few fleeting seconds and Tatyana with Stepan are bending over Igor's body.
"Well done. I'm dying with defeating – quite common plot. Sometimes we lose." - has mumbled Igor and got numb.
"You are not only a fool, but also seemingly a shooter." - has said with playfulness Tatiana, who has returned in vivid mood: "Let's look for somebody from guarders. Or you will face with accusations in being murderer and scum. Nice chance to spend next days at mines."
They've gone, then peacefully come back.
"You say, you've killed him in a duel?" - has asked with dryness bald plump guard.
"Yes sir. From barrel of this colt."
"And who was managing with judging and with establishing of terms?"
"I was me." - said with quickness Tatiana, who has made abrupt step ahead.
"I have seen lots and lots of duels, but to take girl as own assistant... I guess, you was main cause of act."
"Oh, yes, you're absolutely right."
"Then, let’s describe from start to ending. With names, lifes' facts and date's of births."
So, having told all what was asked and having left both guard and corpse, soothed tired heroes have moved in timid walk to bonds of house of half a dozen of miles to the house of Tatiana.
"Are you glad, my fresh-made heartful lover?"
"I’m still in shock, in horror's nets..."- has sighed with hesitance Stepan and then with passiveness continued: "I see, I've won, but what's the price..."
"Breathe, blink and catch this sultry air. You're lucky idiot, I'll say. Let's step, don't waste reminded time."
So, having reached demanded door and having landed at free sofa, pleased languid lovers once again have delved in dialogue, discussing course of further going of newly minted instant bonds. 
"I guess, you're measurelessly happy - you've got main victory, main prize. Long years after you can easily forget - both of this day and of won duel, but you will certainly remember each single moment of this night - in all details and till last breath." - Tatyana has alluringly got up and freed from dress and then, with deftness having sat at sofa's edge, in most impudent lustful manner put few of fingers in between of own legs and, having spreaded tempting hips, leaned back, exposing whole mad splendor of sweet and fervent body's bloom. Stepan has fallen in confusion and, having frozen in beholding, got fully silent, weak and pale.
"Wake up, you're not in art museum, it's not for viewing, it's for more..."- Tatyana has invitingly bent up and, briskly adding into pose excess of lecherousness' presence, with stopless storm of shameful notes, intoxicating mind with passion, sent smile and, having slowly removed her humid fingers, placed them in mouth and licked up, with immense craving into movements of chained with lewdness melting lips, already sunk in omnipotence of inly bursting heat of sins.
"Come on, taste too." - has told the lady and, promptly flooding heart with courage, returned her hand in wet locations and, having catiously slipped by tender folds, put two soaked fingers into mouth of Stepan and then with sharpness taken back: "Are you in paradise, my toy?"
Tatyana has with quickness turned around and, having land herself on knees and lifted ass up into air, in teasing manner nimbly grabbed it with her hands and gently pulled in both of sides, most fully opening for eying whole lot of mysteries and charms, already teeming with sweet dews and sternly calling for denouement. Stepan has timidly moved closer, bent down, shortening last distance, and sticked himself in honey buds of lost in warmness piquant places, with shiver merging in one creature with greedy blossoming of flash. Hot boiling process has got passionate unleashing and, after flurry of repeatable delight, in imperceptibly smooth pace faced up with rays of growing morning.
"Get up, my prisoner of shameful. For you it's time to trudge to home – I truly have to stay alone – to think of matters and next plannings and pet flowers with my love. Jump back from heaven to earth's ground and take you way away of here."
Stepan has passively obeyed, got dressed in crumpled rags of clothes and, having meekly said goodbye, in fright gone out with weak steps.

XVI
Not all, what has begun in lavish manner, saves former prudence, grace and strength. Stepan has learnt it on himself – his frisky promising love story has promptly lost past willful breath and turned in emptiness and ashes without right on any chances and with no prospects of new warmth. Tatiana's nature has upsettingly got cold and calmly freed from any interest in bonds, she has refused from any meetings and left herself on longest distance from any mutual of things. Cracked faded hero has remarkably got closed, delved into apathy and limpness and deadly killed last rescued hopes. At inconsolably dark now, depressed, exhausted, crooked and frail, he was indifferently crawling to waiting house of Andrei – to share sadness and to claim.
"I am most definitely killed, destroyed, harmed, emptified and broken. My soul is mortified and torn, my thoughts are drowned in endless sorrow. Each day I'm feeling only worse... As if I'm staying at death's porch and getting ready to grave's abode."
"It's rather trivial fate's course. When you have managed to save life, main thing is not to loose it's meaning. In dreary givenness of now, all heights and victories are vain – resultless, pointless and tragic, rid of right future and of sense. Such life's distortedness makes crippled, it puts in torments, in distress. If to chew gingerbread for long, at once you'll start to feel whim's savor. It's madly bitter, sick and wrong, but this is working of existence, you cannot heal it or avoid. Both breed of losers and of winners at end gets hopelessness and gloom. You just was living with no winnings, but then you've won and got straight proofs. Sometimes pain's cup gets fully dry, but what's unable to dry out – the ones, who're ready to refill. And not to guess, where you'll get crashed. When people look at light of sun, they never think of it's eclipses. It's sort of lesson, of advice: we can be moving with same roads, but due to different of signs. It's also given to ignore them and to move randomly at all. But is this ticket in solution... If you've assembled some carved tower, or perfect telescope or even time machine from wreckage's scopes of rubbish dump, you'll still remain in midst of garbage, in past surrounding of wastes. No slightest matter how unique you are yourself, how much of wisdom, luck and greatness you have extracted from this world – no one will notice it or value – nor flock of people, neither fate. Life's pier is not a stage of circus: long painful dozens of attempts will never lead to graceful pose or to successful trick's performing. All needs in reason, in luck's help.  And you don't know, how much burdensome and twisty must be your circumstances' volume, which will permit you to succeed. Sometimes, in order of match's litting, you have at first to build match's plant."
"And even this can't stably promise, that you will never lose this light."  - Stepan has tragically sighed and with despondency and turned out: "I once again fall in despair. I guess, I'm slowly going mad..."
"If you will look at one mistakes, you will unlearn of seeing rightness. You've meekly stood at line of edge and started waiting for the moment, when forward abyss will make step. It's not for hopeful, not for good. You have been ended, it can happen – you're not the first and not the last. If you have found proper ladder, try not to lose past need to climb. As rule, dreams' splinters are just fatal, but don't judge night by evening's course, you have to start to bet on changes, on will of risks and fortune's work. Each feast today is part of plague. All flames are temporary, short. You can't lose more, than you've acquired. It doesn't rescue, but it's so." 
And once again long static silence, and once again despair's nets.

XVII
Sometimes time's going is just absurd – at first it hurries, then gets stuck. Some days are passing as long weeks, some months are flying as short minutes. Right five of years have gone out since that duel. Far cold Tatyana have give up her needless lover and then in one of sunny seasons returned from splendid rest at sea with new tart dose of carnal heat and with fresh pregnancy as trophy, at end of winter having given lucky birth to two nice and healthy childs and having proudly remained in stubborn unity with self, again not letting to Stepan, who was most ready to gift help, to bring participance in share. One day Stepan, awaiting her, has caught a cold and then got morbid – completely pale and deadly weak. Now he was walking by dark street, with pain and purposeless himself, beholding gloominess of places of so familiar locations, which were so faded, frail and bleak. In midst of sluggishness and slush, between of houses and boredom, were meekly crawling faceless clouds, encircling heart with static sadness and throwing mind in chains of pain. Exhausted wind, full of hard anguish, was coyly wandering through places – ahead in permanence of fog. Thick heavy shadows were pathetically huddling in pits of peopleless crossroads, converging, vanishing and freezing in dense and humid air's masses, with sorrow calling in regrets.
"Hey, dear balcony, my friend. I'm once again next to your abode – wait for her silhouette in you. For to return with purest nothing, but having pleased torn heart with dream. It has no sanity, no logic. But I'm unable  to unlearn – to come at here for long awaiting and to keep illness with her charms. And what's most firm, I'll never stop it." - the hero has leaned back and slowly frozen - to hope for unity of glances and to get filled with taste of pain.


AFTERWORD:
In midst of hospital hall's spaces, is stably standing reigning fuss – in walls of tiny cramped chamber one of new wards is getting dead – is catching air and suffocating, most sternly leaving bonds of world. Pale poor fellow is in trouble, his flesh is frighteningly trembling and skin is promptly getting wet. He is awaiting for some person – for whom, of course, no people know.
Soon, deftly passing through of nurses, some pallid, decently tall man has swiftly rushed in his tight room – with tray of oranges in hands and with most ample storm of greetings.
"Andrey! I have been greatly waiting. It's so much hard to die alone. And you, my only friend and fellow. We've seen so much for years' row, so much were talking and discussing. But, as I guess, it's last of times."
"So much of life has gone away. From days of youth and of its blooming. For thirty town Dusky is sadly staying with no bridge – since day, hen you have killed Stavretsky, he was quite glorious guy too. Are you regretting of that shooting? At very ending of own fate."
Stepan has hesitantly sighed: "Of course, I'll tell you only truth. I don't regret – not even slightly. And, what is more, I never was. Was not regretting, that I've shot him, but I'm most heavily regretting, that he has missed in his response..."
The patient has begun to shake and shiver and after minute has got numb. Andrei, to mad surprise of others, has strongly bursted with hard sobbing and plunged in agony and cries. Whole fate is over, whole life's voyage. It's more than nothing, by the way.
At old graveyard – small modest hill, inside of short and faceless fence – not too much bulky square stone with unremarkable inscription – Stepan Grigoryevich Iznankin, a printer, died from health's loss. In third of mile away to side of south, one other hill, more large and old, again with stone and inscription – Stavretsky Igor Alekseich, a draftsman, died into duel.
On little balcony's expanses – vast splendid beautiness of bloom.